Laynie Portland, Retired Spy

by Vikki Kestell

  She nodded in acquiescence.

  As soon as I’m not running for my life.

  SØREN AND KARI FOLLOWED Max’s truck down the highway toward Lincoln. Søren’s sister, Ilsa, was staying the night with Shannon and Rob. When Max finally pulled into Mr. Lincoln’s Burgers & Shakes, Søren parked their car next to him.

  Max got out of his truck and climbed into their back seat. “How do you want to do this?”

  “We’re just another family seeing their son back to school after the long weekend,” Søren said. “Let’s go in together and look around.”

  They saw nothing to concern them inside the fast-food restaurant. They also saw no sign of Laynie.

  “We should get something to eat so we don’t stick out like sore thumbs,” Kari suggested.

  They placed their order at the counter. Søren reached into his back pocket and stopped, his hand frozen on his wallet. “Max.” He nudged his son. “Max. Look.”

  Off to the side was a corkboard papered with campus rentals and part-time work opportunities. A picture postcard was stuck to the board by a pushpin. Across its glossy face, in bold red letters, was printed, MAX.

  “Cancel our order, please,” Søren said.

  Max grabbed the card off the board, and they left the restaurant, returning to the car.

  “What does it say, Max?”

  He had turned it over and was grimacing at the message on the back. It was short and cryptic. I read The Preacher this morning—great book. The second chapter was the best out of the five. Sorry I missed Sammie’s birthday. Hope to see you soon.

  “What does it mean?” Max demanded.

  Kari took the postcard into her hand to study it. “It has to be from Laynie, right? She hopes to see us soon, so obviously she expects us to understand the rest.” She chewed her lip. “The preacher. She read ‘The preacher.’ Anyone know that book?”

  Søren snorted. “I think I do.” He opened the glove box and fumbled inside it. Pulled out a Bible.

  “The Preacher is King Solomon, the author of the book of Ecclesiastes.”

  “Second chapter!” Max shouted.

  “The second chapter out of five?” Søren frowned fingering through the book. “That makes no sense. Ecclesiastes has twelve chapters, not five.”

  “What if . . . What if she meant the fifth verse?” Kari suggested. “Ecclesiastes 2:5?”

  Søren found it and read aloud, “I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kind of fruits.”

  They were quiet, digesting the words. Søren shook his head. “Max? Anything?”

  “Well, it could be anywhere. I mean, the ag college has orchards with all different varieties of trees, but—”

  “But where? Where are the orchards, Max?”

  He looked out the window. “I think . . . yeah. They are right over there, off that corner. Over that fence.”

  “That could be it, Søren,” Kari said with hope. “I think she picked that place because we’ll be hidden among the trees.”

  “Are we supposed to hop the fence, walk into the college’s private orchard and just wait for her to show up?”

  “No, silly,” Kari laughed. “She told us when to meet her right there, on the postcard.” She pointed. “See? ‘Sorry I missed Sammie’s birthday.’”

  Her eyes were damp when she added, “Sammie’s birthday was June 2. No one but Laynie and I would know his birthday off the top of our heads. June 2. That’s 6:02.”

  Kari smiled through her tears, then laughed. “That’s when we meet her. In that orchard over there at two minutes after six.”

  Max laughed with Kari. “Wow, Mom. Aunt Laynie is pretty smart.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Guess she’d have to be, huh? Being she’s a spy and all.”

  Chapter 31

  BY ORDERING AN EARLY dinner that she did not touch, Laynie paid to keep her table. Her nerves would not allow her to eat anything more, so she sipped cup after cup of strong coffee. The caffeine kept her wits about her, but the acid did nothing for her uneasy stomach.

  At half past five, Laynie paid her bill, left a tip on the table, and slipped away from the bowling alley. Dusk in October would fall sometime after seven, but the sky was already gloomy with the possibility of more rain. She walked casually down the streets until she was directly opposite the orchards.

  She cut across the street and hopped the chest-height cyclone fence onto campus land, directly into the longest stretch of the UNL orchard. Within moments, she was hidden among the trees.

  SØREN, KARI, AND MAX left Mr. Lincoln’s on foot, walking down the streets until they reached the campus. Max led them down winding paths around buildings until they reached the grassy area next to the orchard. In the waning light, they made out the long lines of trees and a row of beehives, their white paint shining out of the shadows.

  Max gestured to his parents, and they huddled. “I don’t know where to go from here, Mom and Dad. All those trees over there extend a couple blocks in that direction. That’s a lot of orchard.”

  “Why don’t we walk along the edge of the trees? Maybe she’ll see us, Max,” Kari whispered.

  LAYNIE CREPT THROUGH the trees, using their even rows to keep her moving into the orchard. When she reached a break in their lines, she turned south until she approached an open, grassy space, and slipped silently along its edge.

  Three figures were huddled across from the beehives. She heard their whispers through the lengthening gloom.

  “Maybe she’ll see us, Max,” came a soft, feminine voice.

  Kari!

  Laynie raised her hand to catch their attention—but beyond them on the narrow maintenance road, a lone Suburban appeared, its lights off. The vehicle ground to a halt and two men jumped from it, shouting commands to Max, Kari, and Søren. Laynie ducked into the tree line and watched in dismay as the men commanded Max, Kari, and Søren to get on the ground. One of them patted them down, checking for weapons.

  Not Zakhar!

  Marstead? It must be!

  Laynie covered her mouth with both hands and screamed noiselessly into them, No, no, no! No one was to ever find them! You were going to keep them safe, God!

  She kept her eyes on the scene. The men, finding no weapons, holstered theirs, got Max, Kari, and Søren to their feet, and herded them together into one of the Suburban’s rear seats.

  Laynie unzipped her coat pocket and reached for her HK.

  Only two of them. Weapons holstered. I will creep through the trees and come at them from the driver’s side.

  She squeezed the HK P7K3’s cocking mechanism to chamber a round.

  Behind her, a man said, “That won’t be necessary, Miss Olander.”

  Chapter 32

  LAYNIE STOOD PERFECTLY still, waiting for a team of Marstead agents to rush her. Cuff and gag her. Throw her into the backseat of another vehicle.

  Instead, the man behind her ordered, “Take your hand out of your pocket—slowly, Miss Olander, without the gun. That way, we won’t have any misunderstandings or unfortunate mishaps.”

  Laynie withdrew her hand, splaying the fingers of her empty hand.

  “Good. Now, please turn around.”

  A man stood a few feet away. Laynie looked for but spied no Marstead agents clustered around him. In fact, he appeared to be alone and unarmed.

  He appeared to be in his fifties, medium height, prematurely gray hair artfully cut, a classic charcoal gray Burberry overcoat worn over a suit against the cold—the de rigueur complementary cashmere wool scarf about his neck, folded properly into the coat’s front overlap.

  “Who are you? Who are those men, and why have they taken . . . those people into custody?”

  “They aren’t in custody, and they are in no danger. We just didn’t want any misunderstandings or un—”

  “Or unfortunate mishaps. You said that already.”

  “Yes, and I was considerate enough not to have them wait in the cold while we spoke, Miss Olander.�
�

  He stepped closer. Laynie backed up.

  “I’m not this Olander person you keep calling me.”

  “Ah, right. I understand your working profile is Elaine Granger? Well done, that. And to answer your first question, my name is Jack Wolfe. Director Wolfe.”

  Laynie stopped abruptly at the name. “Let me guess. You’re Marstead senior management.”

  He nodded and smiled as though amused. “Actually, Marstead is but one organization that resides under my department’s umbrella.”

  Laynie comprehended his deeper meaning. “You have more than one clandestine organization under you. You . . . you’re something of a spy master.”

  “They told me you were insightful. I’m glad to see they weren’t wrong.”

  Laynie kept her eyes on him, wondering when his goons would hustle her into a second waiting vehicle, where they would take her, and what kind interrogation they would subject her to—or if they would skip all that and make her death a quick one.

  “What comes next, Mr. Wolfe?”

  He raised his hand. From the trees, a man stepped forward.

  Laynie scowled, both surprised and furious. It’s a freaking circus parade! Four men and two vehicles—and I had no idea we’d been burned? I have really lost my edge.

  The man handed Wolfe a portfolio. Wolfe opened it and extracted a single sheet of paper. Wolfe read it once through, then placed it on the outside of the portfolio and signaled the same man, who dutifully presented his back to Wolfe. Wolfe held the portfolio against the man’s back and signed his name to the paper. Then he extended it—and the portfolio—to Laynie.

  She kept her eyes on Wolfe, refusing to close the distance between them and take what he offered.

  “It’s your resignation, Ms. Granger. Accepted, signed, and backdated. However, given the unpleasant circumstances leading up to your ‘retirement’ from clandestine service, we’ve included . . . a retirement alternative for your consideration. You’ll find the details in the folder.”

  “An alternative? What, a cushy job offer? Or compensation for Marstead trying to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, all three.”

  For a second time, Laynie noted the suggestion of an amused smile.

  She failed to see the humor. “I’d be working for you?”

  “Within my organization. A niche where your skills will be useful but well out of the public eye.”

  “And if I choose not to accept?”

  He shrugged. “Please understand. We don’t want you if you don’t want us. On the other hand, Linnéa Olander is still the target of interested Russian and Ukrainian parties, and we can’t have that. It would present an unacceptable security risk.”

  “I took care of Petroff. Unless I’m mistaken, Zakhar, Petroff’s assassin, is my only threat. You could sweep him up if you chose to. Who else would be looking for me?”

  “You haven’t heard, then?”

  Laynie flushed. “All right. I’ll bite. What haven’t I heard?”

  “Vassili Aleksandrovich Petroff was released from FSB custody two days ago, cleared of all charges. Secretary Rushailo has publicly stated his full confidence in Petroff—and appointed him Deputy Under Secretary to the Russian Federation’s Security Council. That’s quite a promotion, don’t you think?”

  “But . . . but I have insurance against Petroff!”

  “Our sources tell us that Petroff had a recent private audience with Rushailo in which they discussed your letter and its accompanying CD-ROM. Petroff convinced Rushailo that the data you stole while you were his mistress would implicate the Secretary as much as himself.

  “The FSB, as you know, is commanded by many of Petroff’s former KGB colleagues and friends. Petroff had arranged with his friends to make the data public, which would have resulted in Rushailo’s downfall if he didn’t see things in the ‘right light.’ Sort of the Russkie version of ‘If I go down, I’m taking you with me.’”

  “But . . . how does that make Rushailo a threat to me? If I have insurance squirreled away against Petroff, then I have it against both of them—if what you’re telling me is true.”

  “Ah, but you see, we have covert agents nicely placed inside Rushailo’s administration and would rather not have you upsetting the Russian status quo at present, so . . . we leaked your CPA’s address to them.”

  “You did what?”

  “Oh, your CPA is fine. We moved him and let the Russians ‘find’ the insurance packages. Sadly, the unintended consequence was that Linnéa Olander is now in more danger from Rushailo than she was from Petroff. Apparently, too, a hacker within the US Odessa mafiya has been tracking you.”

  “What? The Ukrainians are looking for me?”

  “Zakhar’s doing, I’m afraid. We hope to ‘sweep him up’ soon, as you suggested, but there’s no calling off the Ukrainians once they have your scent. You’d be quite the trophy for them to flaunt in the Russians’ faces.”

  Laynie felt herself falling over a cliff . . . falling, falling, falling.

  Wolfe stepped toward her and reached out a hand to catch her. He held her upright until she steadied, then he leaned in to whisper in her ear.

  “Ms. Granger, Elaine, you have served this country with distinction for many years, going above and beyond what we should have expected of you. This man, Petroff, is a monster, and I am personally apologizing for the abuse and mistreatment you suffered under him. I don’t want him to ever find you.”

  The relief washing over her was a tidal wave, sweeping her out to sea. Laynie couldn’t catch her breath. Her legs lost their strength. Wolfe gestured for someone behind Laynie and a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt grabbed her elbow and supported her, kept her from falling over.

  “I gotcha, Marta. No worries, now, ’hear?”

  The accent, that good ol’ boy schtick, acted on Laynie like a whiff of ammonia. She gasped and caught her breath.

  “Tobin?” She craned around to see him.

  “Already tol’ you. M’ friends call me Quince.” His mouth wasn’t smiling but his eyes were—at least as much as he’d allow them to in front of Jack Wolfe.

  “But . . . but what—”

  Wolfe answered, “That’s a long story, Miss Granger. You’ll have plenty of time for that later. At this moment, we have bigger fish to fry, specifically, this Zakhar character.”

  “What about Zakhar? Are you going to let him keep pursuing me?”

  Wolfe looked at his watch, as though late for an appointment. “Oh, we’ll be dealing with him shortly, have no fear. However, it’s you I’m asking right now. Come work for me, Elaine. With the emerging threat of radical Islam, our intelligence services are going to be slammed, but that doesn’t mean we simply ignore Russia. You know Petroff better than anyone on the earth. With his ascent to power within the government, we can certainly use your expertise.

  “You won’t participate in covert operations. It will be more of a behind-the-scenes analysis job. You may find your work underwhelming, but you will be useful—and, more importantly, we’ll keep you safe. Off the grid. Off Rushailo and Petroff’s radar.”

  “And, uh, what about those people over there?”

  “Yes, just who are those people, Elaine? Are they friends? Or something more?”

  Laynie looked away, her jaw working. “It’s complicated.”

  “It shouldn’t be. As a Marstead covert operative, you swore to full disclosure. If you don’t want ‘those people’ to someday be caught up by the Russians, it would be best to tell me.”

  Laynie chewed the inside of her cheek before admitting, “It’s my sister . . . and her family.”

  Wolfe frowned. “You don’t have a sister.”

  “Yeah, well, it turns out I do.”

  His frown deepened. “You hid this from us?”

  Resentment heated in her. Her answer was sharp and barbed. “Don’t think for a minute that you have moral grounds to berate me, Director Wolfe
. Your subordinates were the ones who gave the order to ‘retire’ me. The fact is, I didn’t know I had a sister when Marstead recruited me. If I hid my sister after she found me, it was because I didn’t trust the Marstead bureaucracy—and the retirement order you are responsible for proved me right to do so.”

  Wolfe, clearly angered, didn’t answer for a minute.

  When he calmed, he said, “All right. I take your point. But you want your sister to remain unknown to our enemies, don’t you? The Russians will never catch a whiff of your loved ones from us. I’ll carry the knowledge of them strictly between us and the four trusted men I have on the ground here with me.”

  “But . . .”

  “I’m afraid I must insist—for their sake, but also for ours. You’ll be placed in a program similar to WITSEC. You already know Marshal Tobin here, and I can see that you trust him. I’ve obtained authorization to move him into our organization. We’re forming a new team, something specialized. Compartmentalized. You, him, and select others. I’m certain Tobin would be willing to help you through the adjustment period.”

  Laynie watched Tobin’s expression freeze.

  “This is news to you? You didn’t know?” she asked.

  His eyes flicked once in her direction and away.

  “We hadn’t gotten around to asking him, but I don’t think he’s going to object, do you? What do you say?”

  Laynie wasn’t about to roll over that fast. “How? How did you find me, how did you discover this meeting place?”

  Wolfe shook his head. “Naturally, we have to play our cards close to the vest—I’m sure you understand. Let me just say that, although we didn’t have a time, we did obtain this location. We’ve been here waiting for you for the past two hours.”

  Laynie wasn’t satisfied with Wolfe’s vague answer, but the man gave her no chance to ask another question. He pressed her again.

  “Accept my offer, Miss Granger. My plane is waiting. We’re prepared to escort you to D.C. this evening and get you settled into your new role. You’ll be safe. Reasonably free. Or you can decline and hope you don’t lead the Russians or the Ukrainian mob straight to your family.”